


Immodest Innocencies

by Siriusstuff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Derek and Stiles are the Same Age, First Kiss, First Time, High School, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Shower Sex, Tags May Change, locker room ogling, see story notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles's (and Derek's) list of firsts gets very long all in one day (and night.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Posting my first WIP. I apologize for not posting a complete work. The truth is, this was the first fanfic I ever started. I stopped when I got impatient with how long it was getting--then I wrote and posted everything else under my name on AO3. I want to finish this fic and my sense of obligation will (I hope) motivate me to do so if it's a WIP, because while I'm subscribed to so many WIP's, they make me crazy with waiting and I don't want to do that to anybody.
> 
> I know how this fic proceeds and how I want it to end.--I just have to write it!
> 
> Also note, this is mostly all about Stiles and Derek, all other characters listed are minor--sometimes very minor!--or only mentioned.
> 
> Any encouragement would be deeply appreciated!
> 
> (PS--"Innocencies" is a real word!)

Stiles Stilinski wasn’t a poet. Sure, in seventh grade he’d written a poem, but as an assignment for English class: _write a poem_. Then he’d gotten the brilliant idea to make it a sonnet, a sonnet to Lydia Martin, the most beautiful girl in the world—who paid no attention whatsoever to him. But a sonnet would win her over, of that he’d been sure. But he’d had to turn in his sonnet to the teacher first, of course, since it had taken him to the last possible minute to get it finished. Yet Stiles was positive even Ms. Frigg‘s refrigerated heart would be swayed by his impassioned love lyric, or at least she’d offer him some notes to make it even better. That was her job, wasn’t it?

Then he got it back—with a grade of C—a C!—and the single notation, “Nice try.”

Undaunted he’d printed out the poem, in fancy font, on quality paper stock sneaked from a file cabinet at the BHPD. After two additional days mustering up the courage, he’d presented it to his fair lady, along with a single red rose from the 7-Eleven near the school, while she’d stood waiting outside the room where her after-school math club convened.

The sonnet-inspiring Ms. Martin had read over the thing cursorily, holding the paper between forefinger and thumb, as if for least possible amount of contact with it. Finished, she’d critiqued Stiles’s efforts at iambic pentameter as “quite faulty.” But she’d thanked him for the rose.

But that was then and this was now, high school junior year. In the interval Stiles’s teenage hormones had begun surging through his every organ—especially his sex organs. For all her charms Lydia Martin as muse paled in comparison to the sight before Stiles’s eyes now, in the locker room after an outdoor session of gym class on a still summery September day. Derek Hale had already shed his Converse, rolled off his sweat socks and peeled away the damp top of his gym uniform from his muscled teen torso. Thrusting his gym shorts down revealed Derek Hale’s jockstrap clad ass to the dazzled orbs of the erstwhile sonneteer, and Stiles realized only an ode the likes of which hadn’t been written since the ancient Greeks praised athletes in the most exalted verbiage could ever properly celebrate such an exquisite work of nature.

If only it hadn’t left Stiles speechless.

Derek squirmed out of his jock, dropped it into his gym bag with the rest of his perspiration-soaked things, then he turned towards the showers, which he had to pass Stiles to get to. The sight of utterly naked Derek Hale briefly cancelled out any higher function remaining in Stiles’s brain.

But, son of the Beacon Hill’s sheriff who’d achieved said position in part through astute application of his observational powers, Stiles was the proud and grateful genetic inheritor of similar information-gathering skills, and he possessed hawk-sharp vision as well. In the mere seconds allotted him with Derek in his line of sight, Stiles itemized the highlights of the splendid physique as it approached: Pronounced though not over-inflated pectoral muscles, a streak of fine hairs starting at the sternum between those pecs then stretching sometimes sketchily downward over the six—or was it eight—pack abs, turning to treasure trail south of Derek’s shallow belly button, into the tangle of his pubes. There, sprung slightly outward from its base, hung Derek’s impressive uncut dick, substantial and tubular, looking, even soft, like it would feel hefty in the hand—

Looking— _looking!_ Were Stiles capable of deeming, he’d be deeming himself out of his mind, looking as long as he had. Even if it had been less than three seconds, it had been less than three seconds of uninterrupted staring focused on Derek Hale’s naked body. Was it due to the persisting summer heat? The fact that he’d neglected to jerk off at least four times yesterday? Some unknown biorhythmical period peaking or troughing just at that moment? Whatever the cause, Stiles had no power to look away. Worst of all, when he raised his eyes just as Derek passed him, Derek was looking right at him, Derek’s—bright, astonishing, multicolored—eyes were looking right into Stiles’s eyes.

Maybe Stiles would be a dead man in the very near future.

But not yet. Derek walked past him, into the showers, and Stiles brain came back on-line, fully and all at once. He rid himself of his gym uniform, so rapidly it might have looked like his clothes had exploded off his body. In the triangulation of potentially fatal attraction, extraordinary aesthetic appreciation, and perfect awareness that he had absolutely no idea what was making him so insanely bold, Stiles looked down at his own dick, a ticking time bomb but still flaccid enough for public viewing, and he muttered quietly as possible, “Be good and I promise I’ll take care of you soon.”

“What?” Danny asked from one locker down.

“Nothing,” Stiles said. “Just reminding myself to… _nothing._ ” He shook his head briskly. End of conversation.

Stiles entered the showers, observing while still moving. Beacon Hills High School gym was equipped with state of the art locker room facilities—fresh from the 1980’s. The showers were one large open space, lined with shower heads along two parallel walls, large drains in three spots across the floor.

Fate was either conspiring with Stiles to fulfill his mission of madness or setting him up for humiliation, potentially mortal. In the corner nearest the entrance were unoccupied shower heads and Stiles picked one of those. Most of the guys were congregated at the farther side and Derek was outermost in the crowd, head turned away from Stiles, talking with Isaac or Jackson, his buds. Soap-sudsy water streamed over Derek’s limbs and gleaming torso, riveting Stiles’s attention once more. But Stiles turned to the faucets for his own shower head, adjusted the spray to hard but lukewarm and let the water beat on his skull. He’d brought neither soap nor shampoo with him so he just ran his fingers through his hair, over his face and upper body. He wasn’t going to venture any lower. He was also slowly pivoting, so that without any effort he could see Derek.

Derek Hale’s body in profile was a sight—as it was from any angle. But in profile, naked, the prominent, vision-magnetizing feature was his ass, its curvature. Derek’s ass was hemispherical, but not really like half a globe. Stiles had heard of sacred geometry and that had to be what shaped Derek’s ass, because it was divine to behold. There was a subtle contour from top to bottom, the bottom curve bearing the fuller roundness. In the steam-diffused light of the shower room Derek’s ass looked the palest part of him. It was impossible to look away from it. Stiles wished he were an artist, better yet, a sculptor, to actually reproduce the curves and contours in three dimensions. Best of all would be to touch Derek’s ass with his bare hands, Stiles imagined.

As if he felt Stiles’s eyes—or his hands—on himself, Derek’s head turned in Stiles’s direction. Stiles instantly tipped his face down, looking at the floor, at the weirdly colored tiles that had probably never looked completely clean. Stiles rotated and reached for the hot water faucet, turning it back so that only cold water hit him, so the shock might end this entrancement. Still he could see at his vision’s edge Derek moving his body, lifting his arms to wash away the last traces of soap, tilting back his head to rinse his thick, luscious locks, stepping out of the spray, tossing his head, flinging water off his body with over all shakes.

Stiles turned the cold water faucet as far as it would go so the water blasted out, spattering off his head, his shoulders. It was numbing cold, but even skinny-dipping in the Arctic Ocean wasn’t going to quell Stiles’s heat. He turned again as Derek went walking past, out of the showers. Through the needling frigid water Stiles got to see that profile again, in motion, but this time with a much closer view of where thigh bone joined pelvis, where the knit of major muscles and the cover of flesh formed that lovely concavity on the butt-cheek side. Stiles apparently loved the body’s hollows and notches and clefts—particularly those on Derek Hale’s body. But then Derek was gone. But right behind was Jackson, who flinched back as he got near Stiles and screeched, “Stilinski, you fucking asshole, that water’s fucking _freezing!_ ” He scooted past still muttering curses and appraising Stiles’s sanity as apparently lacking.

Stiles decided it’d be wise to wait, to let the locker empty out some. Till at least Derek wasn’t there…

It was a Friday afternoon; everyone would want to get away ASAP, wouldn’t they?

Taking as long as possible to make any move, Stiles carefully rotated the faucets, stopped the water’s flow. He stood there and gave each faucet an extra twist. Yep, definitely off.

He turned, stood still again, used his hands to skim away the excess moisture from his skin. He returned to stillness, took a few deep breaths.

From the showers’ entryway Stiles focused on his locker and bee-lined to it. He pulled out his towel and covered his head. Maybe he was invisible now. He sat, his wet butt squelching on the bench, and began a methodical drying of his skin, though not till after he’d thoroughly dried his drenched head, which required five full minutes’ vigorous rubbing action at least. By the time he’d got between each toe there was quiet all around him, apart from the sounds he could hear outside. After that he dressed like a non-lunatic person would, headed to his hall locker for the books he’d need over the weekend, then to his Jeep.

Outdoors, his ice cold shower kept the heat from immediately suffocating him, but inside the Jeep was brutal. His core temp would start rising very soon. Lacking the amenity of AC, he just needed to get moving, with the windows all the way down.

He drove to where he could ride with some speed, to get the air blowing through the windows. Driving soothed, but Stiles’s mind could never be quiet for long, or ever. No sooner had he got to some comfortable cruising speed, around the outskirts of town, random thoughts, momentarily random at least, bubbled up.

God, was it _hot._

“ _When the weather’s hot and sticky, ain’t no time for dunkin’ dickie,_ ” he suddenly chanted, remembering some rhyme from schoolyard days, even before puberty had raised its helmeted head, a rhyme that sent him, Scott, and every other boy he knew into giggle fits.

Stiles wondered if Derek Hale had dunked his dickie into anyone, and could almost hear the squeal of brakes, the skid of tire treads as his mind hair-pin turned down a detour it would never exit now.

“And you were doing so well,” he cried to his crotch, where his dick roused from the dreamless torpor he’d deeply chilled it into.

“We’re not going home. Forget it,” he declared. His dad had overnight duty for the whole weekend, which, knowing his old man, he’d turn into 12-hour shifts by going to the station by 8 or 9. That was still hours away though. Stiles would need to either cook their dinner or bring it home from somewhere. But dad would still be home, for hours.

Little Stiles was remembering being promised Stiles-time, for little and big Stiles, back in the locker room.

With tsunami-like power and momentum all that Stiles had observed, minutely noted, scored perhaps permanently into his brain, concerning the magnificent anatomy of one Derek Hale, was now returning to consciousness with a vengeance.

Reports were already coming in, live, forecasting complete destruction.

Stiles adjusted his hard-on into a less pressing, painful position. There was no way he could go home for some Stiles time now. Dad would ask about dinner, about any number of things all infinitely less important than Stiles’s rubbing one out. There was probably no way Stiles could even get past the door without little Stiles, not exactly little now, making himself known despite his enclosure behind two layers of clothing. _Hey there, Daddy! Look at me, Daddy! See how big I’ve grown? Yay!_

The most remote place not too far from home was around the Preserve. Most of it was private property—Hale property in fact, as in _Derek Hale’s huge family_ Hale property—but where the roadway crossed through the Preserve was not monitored apart from the occasional officer of the law on routine patrol. If Stiles gave it too much thought it was as insane as everything else he’d done all afternoon but that thought was hardly an argument against it. Still, every cop in town knew he was the sheriff’s son, plus, he’d be jerking off in the metaphorical midst of the Hales, and jerking off to fantasies about one of the Hales in particular, probably their golden child, _Derek_. On the other hand, he’d be finished in absolutely no time, considering how ready to blow he’d been for the past hour. Then he could go home, deal with his dad, their dinner, whatever, without this pressure, this need for relief, and he’d have all night to himself after that. He could have a masturbation marathon if he wanted to, a Stiles Time Spectacular, a Jerkoffapalooza.

So, to the Preserve he pointed Roscoe.


	2. Chapter Two

Freed at last, Stiles’s dick curved up, its hot skin radiating, hotter than even the hot afternoon air. He’d shimmied his pants and briefs halfway down his thighs—definitely not the comfort he was accustomed to for a thing like this, but neither was jerking off behind the wheel of his Jeep while parked in a dead-end pathway between trees his usual venue for such activity either. Still, there was something about it—maybe this meant he was kinky?

No, if he were truly kinky, he’d be prepared for jerking it in public, or near public. He’d have lotion or lube somewhere in the Jeep, and he definitely did not. This was going to be a dick-yanking like when he’d first discovered if you pulled on it long enough something happened like nothing else he ever experienced.

Stiles licked his palm a few times and went back to it, hoping to feel his fingers and palm glide more smoothly up and down his cock, but that wasn’t happening. He’d been spoiled by quality personal lubrication products.

He pushed his pants and briefs farther down, so he could at least spread his knees wider. The driver’s seat was already pushed back far as it went—damn his long legs!—and he’d already angled the seat back to what felt comfortable, or as comfortable as it was going to get. Despite the futility he licked his palm again, gathered up and spit what he could, for a few seconds of pleasing slickness before plain yanking resumed. Maybe if he thought of wetness, of fluid motion, of the soapy water sliding—the little clusters of bubbles and froth flowing down Derek’s side in the gym showers. Stiles had even caught of glimpse of water streaming and dropping from the tip of Derek’s dick. And—Stiles’s brain and hand and hard-on finally interfacing—hadn’t Stiles seen Derek’s soapy hand rake smoothly upwards between his ass cheeks, twice, three times? _Yes. Yes. Yes._

It had been in that very locker room in Stiles’s freshman year, the first time he’d found himself surrounded by naked guys, gotten glimpses of genitals other than his own, floppy, dangly dicks, stumpy, chunky ones, dicks poking or drooping to one side or another—the many variations were amazing. But backsides, butts, asses—he’d never seen even his own apart from inconclusive reflections. _That’s_ what had brought about the realization, somewhere between stunning trauma and giddy discovery, of what Stiles felt _for real_ , though he might still not feel ready to specifically identify. Guy’s asses—they were— _beautiful_. Stiles had wanted contact, maybe with as many as possible. Nevertheless there had been one butt, imprinted kind of like a snapshot that wouldn’t fade, which stayed attached to that initial realization: It had been his perennial near neighbor in the locker room, Danny Mahealani’s ass, smooth, flawless as a perfectly unblemished peach, cheeks elegantly elongated, the comprising muscles looking firm, taut, so that the ass crack wasn’t a mere straight up-and-down line, but subtly sinuous. Danny’s butt had been Stiles’s ideal of asses—until he saw Derek Hale’s. Why that one supplanted Danny’s Stiles as yet did not fully know, though it seemed for something more elusive to understanding than aesthetic reasons. But it was his new ideal, Derek’s ass, and so far unassailable in its status. Stiles hadn’t seen it many times, the truth being that in the locker room he was usually devoting his attention to Scott, who was never without something to say and say at length, usually with unbound eagerness. It so happened, that particular Friday, Scott’s mom had kept him home to rest after a very nasty asthma attack. So there had been nothing—that is, no one—to divert Stiles’s eyes from the sight of Derek Hale divesting himself of his sweaty gym uniform, nothing competing for Stiles’s undivided attention when Derek thrust down his shorts, leaving only the white jock, two thin straps from its waistband framing those beauteous butt cheeks, to fixate Stiles mind.

And if Derek had run his soapy hand and fingers between those cheeks to cleanse the sweat from there, he’d touched his asshole, hadn’t he. And, _god,_ how Stiles would love to touch or even just see that most private, most vulnerable place on Derek Hale. _Derek’s asshole._ With the afternoon’s observations unfaded in mind’s eye Stiles knew well how smooth were the cheek sides and upper swells of Derek’s ass, but at the base of each cheek, the palm-worthy round bottom halves, was the shadow of hair, and in the cleft between those cheeks Stiles had seen a little furriness—hell, he’d seen the fringe of it pointing askew this way and that after Derek’s shorts were off. Stiles imagined the way body hair grew in patterns, whorls of it up from the calves— _Derek’s calves_ —over his muscle-corded thighs and around to the pattern’s edges at the bottom of Derek’s butt, with the focal point being around his hole, the anal pore, that secret spot. Stiles was on his knees at Derek’s backside, his hands on Derek’s ass, _oh yeah,_ adoring it with caresses, with softest squeezes. Close enough to kiss each cheek, alternating cheeks between kisses, each kiss closer and closer to the cleft, _Derek’s ass crack,_ Stiles’s thumbs gently parting it so his mouth could nuzzle inward and at last kiss—

“ _Unnnnnghhh,_ ” Stiles groaned, drawing it out a few seconds, his toes curling, ass coming off his seat once or twice. But even with two aftershocks, and a throaty, inarticulate exclamation to finish, as far as orgasms went, this had not been one for the record books, but that had definitely more to do with the setting and definitely not the fantasy, which Stiles was most definitely revisiting under his more customary, orgasm-maximizing conditions.

Still, what a mess he’d made—all over his pubic hair, his lower abdomen, his hand—did he always shoot so copiously? Had one or two fewer comes the day before backed up that much semen? More importantly, did his failure in kink preparedness include not having anything to mop it up with? The gusto with which Stiles consumed curly fries—or anything really—had led even Scott to insist he keep napkins or better yet _premoistened towelettes_ in storage but did he actually have either of those items in the glove compartment now?

“Note to self,” he grumbled, “don’t jerk off in the Jeep anymore.” Taking care not to smear any of his mighty load anywhere, Stiles leaned over to open the glove compartment, finding to his joy several packs of wet wipes. They were a medical brand, so only one person in all the world could’ve put them there.

“Scotty, you magnificent fool!” Stiles said aloud, just as movement outside the Jeep caught his eye. He looked up, slightly terrified, and saw, maybe thirty or so feet ahead at the gap in the trees where he’d backed into this impromptu hide-away

Derek Hale

_Derek Hale_

**Derek. Hale.**

Flailing came naturally to Stiles Stilinski, even without stressors. With stressors flailing came like a dreadful spasm in all his limbs. At the appearance of Derek Hale, _après_ outdoor jerk-off session, Stiles flailed dreadfully. Knowing he had only seconds Stiles thought licking up the sperm on his hand would be the quickest method of removing it, only, ugh, he’d licked the stuff just once before, when he’d first begun producing it, and only to find out what it tasted like, which was _blech_. There was so much of it now too. And Derek _was_ coming towards the Jeep, slowly, but inexorably.

With his teeth Stiles ripped open a pack of wipes, got at least the greater mass of seed off his hand, got his stomach skin mostly clean and wiped off his pubes hurriedly if not thoroughly. He’d just managed to get his briefs up over his crotch and ass when Derek got to the window, keeping his distance a few feet back.

Stiles was caught, literally caught with his pants down, but he shifted close to the window, leaning against the frame, then went slack, like a marionette when its strings get cut.

Derek, hands in his pockets, just stood there, saying not a word as awkward seconds passed. Stiles finally looked at Derek’s face. Despite his being best friends with a natural genius of the strategy, Stiles’s own attempt at puppy-eyes probably only made him appear ill, or brain-sick.

“This is private property,” Derek said. His eyebrows—how had Stiles not noted those dark, dramatic items in his earlier inventory?—framed a serious glare.

The property known as “the Preserve” was technically only the wooded acreage adjacent to the Hale manor, but all the woodlands surrounding the Preserve were called “the Preserve” by Beacon Hill’s citizenry, and the Hales owned every square inch, since the prior century, everyone said. The county had cut a road through an outer sector of those woods, municipal roads intersected it, but any other roads in the Preserve were private, for Hales’ access only. This alcove in the trees where Stiles had come (more ways than one) was along one of the Hales’ roads.

Stiles replied to Derek’s declaration with a deeply resigned sigh, “I know… I know.”

Nothing about Derek’s expression, a mix of indignation and confusion, changed. More seconds passed. Stiles was going to lose it soon.

“Then what are you doing here?” Derek finally asked. And Stiles, more relieved the unbearable silence was over than desperate to avoid further embarrassment, answered: “You mean you _don’t_ know?”

Now Derek’s expression turned even more intense, a little scary, though Stiles wasn’t sure he wasn’t in fact witnessing the guy’s fight-or-flight response kicking in.

“Are you stalking me?” Derek blurted out, also stepping closer to the window, or at least moving from the spot he’d seemed stuck in.

Stiles felt a twist in his guts; he was so much in the wrong here it was overwhelming, and Derek’s tone—was it outrage, fright, hurt?—was killing Stiles with guilt now.

“I’m sorry.—This was just a coincidence,” Stiles explained—by way of no explanation at all.

“Coincidence?”

It felt hopeless trying to explain—without admitting to a whole bunch of humiliating things Stiles would prefer not admitting. So Stiles opted for more apologies. “I’m sorry. Just—really sorry. For everything.”

“So you _are_ stalking me,” Derek stated.

“No.—Listen, it’s like you’re a cop who’s pulled me over, standing there like that,” Stiles began. “Could you, please—could you come over to the other side, maybe get in and we can talk? _Please?_ ”

“Get in the car with my stalker. That makes _so_ much sense.” Derek retorted, but at least his tone had lightened, maybe.

“I’m _not_ stalking you.—Besides, you could snap me in two with one hand,” Stiles admitted.

“Maybe you have weapons in there,” Derek fired back, and he sounded like he meant it.

Was he serious? Stiles almost asked that out loud. Instead he chose his usual tack: “ _Yes,_ weapons. I have machine guns, grenade launchers, flame throwers. My Jeep’s a transformer too; it’s actually a killer robot under my command.”

“You could have a taser in there, pepper spray.” Derek wasn’t giving in.

Stiles sat back, rolled his eyes, sighed in defeat, loudly. His pants were still around his knees, but obviously only surrender was going to get him out of this.

He was about to invite Derek to look in, to look for weapons, but Derek was already looking in, though what he saw first were Stiles pants round his knees. His expression wrinkled; he backed his head away.

His arms limp, hands in his lap, Stiles confessed. “Derek! _Derek,_ ” he sighed again. “I came here, to this secluded spot that’s not so secluded after all,” he paused. “To—get off. To—to jerk off. To choke the chicken. To spank the monk—”

“I get it!” Derek snapped.

“You really didn’t see me—doing—that?”

“No,” Derek said.

“My dad’s still home. I really needed to—get off.—Haven’t you ever felt like you couldn’t wait to—?” Stiles didn’t know how to end that sentence and not make the situation worse. “I thought I’d found a private spot. I’ve never done something like this before.”

Derek was back to awkward silence, looking at Stiles the way he’d regard a mysterious, potentially dangerous creature.

“So, see? I’m not a stalker. I’m a perv. A weirdo. You can tell everyone about it at school—though, I’m just preparing you, no one’s going to be all that surprised.”

“I’m not telling anyone,” Derek said, quietly. Then, with more agitation, “But that still doesn’t explain—” He stopped himself and dropped to the quieter level of voice. “That doesn’t explain this afternoon,” adding, almost shamefully, “after… gym.”

Stiles closed his eyes, sighed again. “Derek. Please. I promise I will not _touch_ you. But _please_ come sit.”

Finally Derek moved, walking around to the Jeep’s passenger side. Quickly, clumsily, Stiles thrashed and squirmed but got his pants up where they belonged. Derek opened the passenger door in time to see Stiles zipping up—but at least he could see what Stiles was doing, which was _not_ pulling a taser, etc.

Derek secured himself on the seat’s edge, his legs still outside the Jeep. His body was rotated away from Stiles but he was looking at him, forming a torqued, elegant pose, head, neck, shoulders, back, the graceful twist something a photographer would find irresistible.

A wave of heat, a kind of dizziness, washed over Stiles. _Derek Hale is beautiful,_ he realized, once more but more consciously than ever. The thin dark green t-shirt Derek wore impeded nothing, more likely heightened the effect.

Stiles focused out the windshield. “I was absolutely, one hundred percent, _inexcusably_ wrong for—doing that. For—looking at you—like that.”

“But why did you?” Derek asked.

_Geez_ , this guy was dogged! Stiles would never have suspected. But then he did not know Derek Hale. Their circles did not intersect. _This_ was their first conversation.

Stiles was the only child of a trained and tenacious interrogator. That made him not exactly a slouch in evasive answering.

“You have a—good body,” Stiles ventured. “It’s—outstanding.”

So maybe his success rate with said interrogator was… fifty-fifty.

“You stared at—my—penis,” Derek countered, a certain if still demure challenge.

_Not as much as I stared at your ass!_ Stiles thought, behind a stone face.

“Well. It was—there. With everything else. To see,” he replied.

It’s possible Stiles was altogether overestimating that aforementioned success rate.

Derek shifted more firmly into the seat, brought his leg into the Jeep, the other following. He had not stopped looking Stiles right in the eyes.

“Do you want to suck my dick?”

Maybe this was Derek’s verbal equivalent of one of those stunning maneuvers he pulled on the basketball court, the kind that brought the crowd roaring jubilantly to its feet and the opposition crumbling humbly to its knees.

And it had been one of those days, the kind when you suspect life is never going to be the same afterwards. The planets align into one of those once-in-a-thousand-years configurations and the old order reassembles into something new, unrecognizable. Stiles had felt pummeled by circumstance since he’d walked into the locker room after gym class, mostly because he’d not resisted any crazy impulse in a series of them which apparently was not concluded yet. He’d ogled his fill (no, he wanted more) of naked Derek Hale. He’d jerked off outdoors and gotten caught still dripping with his still warm ejaculation. And now he was going to affirm _that_ question he’d just been asked.

“Yes…” Stiles said though the tentative intonation hung in the air like a strong scent. Derek’s eyes widened, surprise obvious. Stiles found it a good look on him.

He was an undeniable fail at athletics, yet Stiles [birth name unavailable] Stilinski, had battled Lydia everybody-knows-rules-the-world-one-day Martin to draws in chess games, repeatedly, and twice, _twice_ , had even checkmated her.

“Only if—”

Derek appeared not to have expected the positive answer in the first place and even less the condition still as yet unstated. He also appeared _not_ uninterested in what that condition was.

“Only if I can—”

The old world would be gone. The new one would be named Crazy World and Stiles would achieve a position of leadership in it, probably by pure acclamation.

“OnlyifIcaneatyourass.”

“ _What?_ ” Derek asked.

“OK,” Stiles sighed. “I will blow you if I can eat your ass.” Cards on the table and all in.

“That’s… _gross,_ ” Derek asserted.

“Not if you’re _clean_!” Stiles wasn’t going to elaborate, not yet at least. “You watch porn, don’t ya? You’ve never seen—rimming?”

“Yes, I watch porn.” Derek sounded near indignant. “But never— _that_.”

“I don’t just watch porn, I like to—know things,” Stiles explained. “You know there are nerve ends— _there_. It’s not all just about _the dick._ There’s a surprising—well, to you it’s probably a surprise, what’s up inside—there.”

“No surprise to me what’s inside assholes,” Derek snarked.

“ _You’re_ gross,” Stiles trumpeted. “I’m not explaining anything more until you tell me: You willing?”

“Willing?”

“To make this deal.”

“Deal?”

“Oh my god, Derek.” But Stiles curbed his tongue, if only barely. “Are you willing to let me—eatyourass—if I _suck your cock._ ” He hoped he’d made the last part sound too good to resist.

“You’re not fucking me,” Derek decreed.

The very idea of fucking Derek was instantly reaching Stiles’s dick. The situation called for diversionary procedures, pronto.

“In no sense of the word. Not my intention.”

“And we’re not doing it in the car.”

“Of course we’re not. I’m removing vehicles forever from the list of possible places for any form of sexual activity.—And this is a Jeep.”

“I know it’s a Jeep.”

“Except for limos.”

“What?”

“No sex in vehicles unless it’s a limo.”

“You have a limo?” Derek asked.

“I do not,” Stiles confirmed. “Only limo fantasies.—Does any of this mean ‘Yes,’ Derek?”

“You’ve—given—blowjobs—before?”

“I have not, just watched _lots_ of ‘em, in pornos. Lots. I’ve never done—anything—at all—with anyone.— _You?_ ”

Indeed Stiles had no idea how he’d manage Derek’s hard dick, which his own observations suggested achieved proportions beyond his mouth’s capacity. He still wondered if this was even going to happen but if it did he’d figure out something.

After another of his signature pauses, Derek answered, “No.”

“But that’s good!” Stiles proclaimed. “Neither of us has any experience, nothing to compare our first time to, and so, no harsh criticisms of technique or the lack thereof, no judging!—So, _yes,_ we’re doing this?”

“Where can we?” Derek delayed one more time.

Not having it _at all,_ Stiles repeated, “ _Yes,_ we’re doing this?”

Derek looked out the window. “Yes.”

“ _Ahhh._ ” Stiles dropped his head down. Pulling teeth from an alligator—from a t-rex!—would be easier. Stiles wanted to pat Derek on the shoulder, rub his back, but he’d promised not to touch. He wasn’t going to shout _hallelujah_ either, much as he wanted to.

At the risk of setting off another circuitous and interminable quest for a definite answer, however, he inquired, “You doing anything tonight?”

“Tonight?”

_Nope!_ “You know it’s just me and my dad at home.”

Derek nodded gravely.

“And you know my dad’s the sheriff?”

Derek’s shrug and the look on his face seemed the visual equivalent of _Duh_. But a little apprehension crept in at the mention of Stiles’s dad’s job.

“He starts night shifts tonight. He’s gone all night.”

“I can’t stay out all night,” Derek informed.

“We don’t need all night. I don’t know how long we need but absolutely not all night.”

“So…?”

“So we exchange numbers. I let you know when my dad leaves. You come over…”

Derek reached for his cell. Stiles pulled out his from his back pocket, to discover he’d never turned it back on after chemistry, his class before gym today. Harris, mega-douche of all mega-douches, handed out automatic F’s if he heard a cell phone even vibrate in his class. Now Stiles saw three texts from Scott and a missed call from his dad.

“Fuck, I gotta call my dad,” Stiles announced.

“Everything OK?”

“Yeah, probably just wants to know dinner plans.—Give me your digits?”

Once each had the other’s number, Stile’s preoccupation with contacting his dad and Scott began eclipsing the fact he’d just made an assignation, for sex, for the first time in his life, with _Derek Hale._ It was no doubt an intentional if not altogether conscious means of not completely freaking out.

Derek had no such distraction. He looked a little lost, a little forlorn.

“Do I need to do any—kind of—you know—preparation?” he asked, the last word almost inaudible.

Stiles wanted to “Aww.” “Can I touch, Derek?” he requested. “Just a reassuring hand on your shoulder?”

Derek nodded. Stiles touched.

“Remind yourself you’re _getting a blow job tonight_ —unless that makes you more anxious! Just relax. You don’t need to do anything—except maybe lie to your parents—unless they’re cool with your telling them you’re cashing in your v-card with another dude.—Any of this helping?”

“Not one bit.”

“You still coming over?” Stiles really needed to work on that puppy dog eyes thing.

“Yeah.”

“Who knows. Maybe we’ll just bond.”

Derek’s head bowed a little, his lips pouted and yet formed a smile. God, Stiles was not prepared, so very not prepared.

He started the Jeep and drove up to the road.

“My dad could leave early as 8 but maybe not till 9. I’ll keep you posted.”

“OK.” Derek got out of the Jeep, then looked back in the window. “You know, my family gets really pissed when people trespass. We’re not a public park. Please. Don’t do it anymore.” He paused. “You’ll have to be with me to be here.”

What? _What?_

“OK,” Stiles—squeaked?

“Alright, I’ll see you later,” Derek said and started down the little road, into the Preserve. Stiles turned the other direction and drove towards the way out.

All he could think was, “ _What?_ ”


	3. Chapter Three

“This is very nice of you, and you really look so much like my son I doubt anyone would ever notice the switch, but I’m a representative of a department of law enforcement, and I must ask you to return my actual child.”

“Oh ho ho ho.” Stiles pressed a hand over his stomach, pitching forwards and back to the sound of gusty, hollow laughs like a bad mall Santa’s. “So funny. The old man’s _sooo_ funny.”

Sheriff John Stilinski stood at the table in their little kitchen. He’d just removed the third item from a heavy paper bag, _May Zing’s Food_ printed on it. He held a quart container of what he knew was _chili con carne_ , one of May Zing’s celebrated specialties.

"That’s for your dinner tomorrow,” Stiles explained. “Tonight I got us both turkey club sandwiches, with Swiss cheese and that spicy sweet dressing. And look at the bread,” unwrapping the sizeable sandwich. “Nice crust, succulent crumb.—Yeah, I know— _cheese_ —but the turkey’s healthy. And May Zing’s all about good, healthy food, healthy ingredients. Also it’s big enough, you can have half for your dinner, take the other half for later tonight.”

John let Stiles’s entire presentation pass uninterrupted, never taking his eyes from his kid. At its finish, eyes narrowed, he asked, “What are you softening me up for?”

“Dad!” Stiles nearly shouted. “You’re working nightshift, you deserve a treat!—But now I see how much my genuinely loving thoughtfulness is appreciated!”

“It just takes some getting used to,” John quipped. There was no way he could let Stiles have the last word, not when there were so many zingers to zing.

“Fine.” Stiles offered no comeback, set the table minimally, pulled out a bag of chips from the May Zing’s bag. “These are for me.” Then a single serving of salad. “And that’s for you.”

They ate in quiet at first, then John’s compliments and obvious enjoyment of the sandwich got conversation going.

But trying to act like everything was normal when everything was certainly _not_ normal was making Stiles think about climbing the walls, for starters.

Stiles wasn’t tasting his food.

“Got plans for this evening, son?” John asked.

Stiles managed not to choke, answered, “Stiles-quarantine is still in effect at Scott’s, till tomorrow.”

“’Stiles quarantine’?”

“Mrs. McCall keeps me and Scott apart for at least 24 hours after an attack. She thinks I get him too excited.” Stiles pronounced the latter as if it were a ridiculous notion. “We’ll hang tomorrow.”

John didn’t know about Scott’s asthma attack the day before. It gave Stiles news to tell, killed some time in an otherwise paralyzed movement toward the moment the Sheriff would leave for the night. Also provided his dad with a suspicion that enforced separation from his best friend was causing his son’s slightly off behavior.

“Want to come to the station for a few hours, do some filing?” his dad offered.

“ _No!_ —I mean, no.—Maybe I’ll do homework,” Stiles lied.

John decided to let that one pass without remark.

After dinner and dutifully wrapping up the remaining half sandwich for his dad, bagging it along with the barely touched salad, Stiles retreated to his room. The Sheriff, already in uniform, perused the sports sections of two newspapers.

In his room Stiles wished again, as he often did, that he were Spiderman; it would certainly make climbing the walls so much easier.

It was barely past 6.

He checked his phone even though there’d been no alerts since the last text from Scott, which had been highly embellished with crying and screaming emojis for how bored he was.

Nothing from Derek meant… ?

Derek had mentioned “preparation.” Stiles wondered if cleaning his room qualified as preparation—for whatever was going to happen that evening. He didn’t know why but Derek struck him as the tidy type. Stiles’s clean and orderly room might leave a good impression even if it would be an erroneous one.

Why’d he want to leave a good impression?

So Stiles cleaned his room, cleared the floor of shed clothing, stacked books on his desk, “dusted” it with a few powerful prolonged puffs of breath that left him woozy. He made sure there was no evidence of his active if solo sex life in sight, checking even under the bed, where two wadded up DNA-laden tissues, amidst dust bunnies, were hiding.

In the drawer of his little bedside table lay a well-squeezed tube of his favorite lube and a bottle of pricey edible cherry-flavored lube that had never been opened except when Stiles had given it a sniff and tasted a finger tip’s worth of it. (He’d been tempted to eat it one night when he’d woken up hungry.)

Condoms he’d once had he and Scott had used in a water-balloon fight after they’d run out of balloons. (Condoms make lousy water balloons.)

What did he need condoms for, anyway?

Stiles fell back across his bed and contemplated the blank ceiling. He felt like a jet liner cruising smoothly at high altitude while a vicious cyclone violently stirred up the atmosphere immediately below. Some planes flew through hurricanes. But they were built for that. Stiles didn’t feel built for that. His wings would come off, his fuselage would rupture. His metaphor was getting the best of him. He should be better at metaphoring, shouldn’t he; he liked poetry, didn’t he? Should he have tried to write a little poem to present to Derek, to, you know, break the ice? Was getting caught jerking off in the woods an ice-breaker? Who’d have ever thought Derek Hale would just come right out and ask for a blow job like that?

“Yo, kiddo,” came his dad’s voice from the foot of the stairs.

Stiles bolted through his doorway.

“Gonna head in.—Thanks for this,” the man said, holding up his bagged midnight snack. “I’ll bring us breakfast in the morning.—Love you, son.”

“Love you, Dad!”

“Stay out of trouble!” were his father’s parting words as the front door closed.

Its sound might as well have reverberated ominously. Now there was only Stiles and his phone and… Derek, suspended in a quantum indeterminacy of coming and not coming to Stiles’s house that night.

At the same moment Stiles heard the alert of an incoming text. His chest clenched around his heart because if this were Derek cancelling, the timing was just cruel, too cruel for life to continue.

But it was Scott, complaining again that he was dying of boredom.

With flying fingers Stiles reminded Scott since his mom was home she’d hover over them like a prison guard—if she even let Stiles through the front door, which was not likely.

Scott’s reply was “PLEASE” repeated till he’d exhausted his character limit.

Stiles promised Scott the entire next day. They’d hang, they’d game, they’d eat junk food by the ton, whatever Scott wanted. He loved his bro, but Stiles needed the night, Scott-free.

The reply, a tearful emoji, with “K,” should have been heart-breaking but Stiles wasn’t taking the bait. It wasn’t like he and Scott hadn’t spent plenty of nights, even Friday nights, apart.

For the first time in his life Stiles was sexiling someone, sexiling his best friend.—This was sexiling, wasn’t it? There needed to be sexual activity involved at some point, didn’t there?

Sexual activity was still prospective.

Stiles had no game. He’d never needed game before, and so it made sense he had no game plan either. So... should he be matter of fact when he invited Derek over, friendly, funny, seductive?—Did Stiles even know how to be seductive?

No, he did not.

_Roses are red, Violets are mauve, Come over now And I’ll suck you off._

No, he did not know how to be seductive. Nor did he know how to suck off someone either, other than hypothetically, so it would be false advertising to put that out there. Would add “liar” to the list of things he already appeared to be to Derek Hale, probably. Plus, he should probably aim for higher than the crotch, shouldn’t he. Shouldn’t he?

He started and deleted four texts before deciding, desperately, to just send Derek his address. _Home alone here. My dad’s gone for the night. You can come over now._

Matter of fact it was.

He sent the text off into the abyss of the ether, aware only of his heartbeat thumping. Time had stopped moving again.

Less than a minute later came Derek’s reply. _OK on my way._

 _Holy fucking shit._ Stiles decided stalking from room to room would prevent his waiting at a window or something uncool like that. But stalking from room to room worked for only a few minutes, maybe only one minute.

He knew how long it took to drive from the Preserve to his house. This was taking longer.

Stiles yanked open the front door, sat down on the porch. The sun had set, sky still light, but dusk was settling in. He put his head between his knees.

The sound of an engine made him look up. The sight of a car pulling to the curb made him feel suddenly relieved, an extraordinary form of relief, since it was still mingled with tension.

It was a black Camaro, the car Derek sometimes drove to school. Stiles decided the pretense of rushing up to admire the sleek vehicle made a great cover for greeting this guy he’d known since grammar school but didn’t really know at all. They’d not ever been friends.

“Hey,” Stiles said, as Derek got out. “Cool wheels.”

“Yeah, it’s my sister’s.” Derek had come around onto the walk. Stiles watched their hands shake, what guys do. Things seemed to be happening by themselves, without his brain’s guidance.

“She’s out with her pre-fiancé,” Derek continued to explain.”So she let me have the car.—I said I was going to Boyd’s tonight.—You know Boyd?”

“I know who he is,” Stiles clarified.

They were walking to the house, toward the front door, swept along by some protocol not requiring their awareness.

But as he opened the door to the living room Stiles asked, “’Pre-fiancé’?”

“They’re ‘pre-engaged’, so wouldn’t that make the guy her ’pre-fiancé’?”

“Technically, I guess,” Stiles agreed. “Have a seat!”

Derek walked past the chair, essentially Stiles’s dad’s throne, and sat on the couch. Stiles noted Derek wore the same dark green t-shirt he’d worn that afternoon, which seemed an interesting thing to note.

“Want something to drink?”

“Got water? I don’t really drink soda.”

Another interesting thing, Stiles further noted as he went to the refrigerator, hoping there’d be some bottled water. There was! There was plenty of soda. There were also cans of ginger ale, his dad’s preferred mix for whisky on those occasions where only mild inebriation was the goal.

“Got ginger ale!” Sitiles shouted.

“That’s soda,” Derek said, in an indulgent tone. He’d come to the kitchen doorway, saw both a bottle of water and a can of ginger ale in Stiles’s hands.

“I _got_ your water,” Stiles teased, but decided he’d drink the ginger ale. Then back at the couch they stood together, seating themselves near simultaneously though in sitting moving a little farther apart.

Whatever power had gotten the two boys to that point without requiring their conscious participation now deserted them. Derek uncapped the water, brought it to his lips. Stiles had opened his soda, was about to take his first drink of it when Derek’s mouth got his attention. Fortunately Derek was focused on what he was doing, for a second at least. He caught Stiles looking.

Stiles just took a gulp of soda, blushing. _Shit._

Silence.

Stiles looked Derek in the eyes, looked away. He took another gulp of soda, a big one.

 _When in doubt, belch._ That always _killed_ Scott.

Stiles belched. It was one for the books.

“Nice,” Derek said, but not exactly in admiration.

“If you were Scott, you’d be in awe.”

“If I were Scott,” Derek retorted, “we’d be belch-talking.”

Stiles stared at him, mouth hanging open a little. But the guy was a hundred percent correct.

“Well,” Stiles said, recovering, “You may know Scott, but the situation here is, _we_ don’t know much about each other. You only know me as—a—creeper—possibly a pervert—and—a trespasser.”

Derek appeared to start frowning, grimacing even. Stiles raced to restore at least the appearance of his prior ease.

“Wait. Sorry—I’m joking—well, maybe not about the creeper—couldn’t swear on a bible in a court of law—” Stiles was losing Derek, it was plain to see. "Alright. Shutting up. Back to my original point. We don’t know each other. We don’t talk, but not because we don’t like each other. At least, that’s not why I’ve never talked to you. It’s just. Different circles, dude.”

Derek’s grimace was definite. Did he look sad? Hurt? _Abort! Abort! Abort, Stilinski!_

“But after today, from now on, we’ll talk, we’ll definitely talk, we’ll always talk now, never stop the talking. I promise!—Derek, you with me?”

Derek waited, then nodded.

“In fact,” Stiles pressed, “we can start right now, getting to know about each other. For the next—for whatever—till we’re tired of it—we can ask each other a question and the other has to answer honestly. OK? And you can go first, because I’m a great host. Ask me anything.”

A beat, two beats, three. Derek looked right at him and asked, “Is Stiles your real name?”

If he hadn’t been so agitated Stiles might have realized this was the first time Derek had ever said his name.

“No,” Stiles answered. Then kept quiet, just looking.

“Well,” Derek pressed, “What’s your real one?”

“That’s a second question.”

Derek groaned, threw himself back against the couch.

“Wait now. Rules are rules. One question at a time, and I answered you. You asked if Stiles was my real name. No, it isn’t.”

“You cheat.”

“I’m not cheating. I answered you. And I was a hundred percent honest.”

“You’re an ass.” There was no heat or acid in his utterance of truth.

“That may be.—But it’s my turn.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you know I was in the Preserve this afternoon?” Stiles realized too late that was not precisely what he wanted to know; he’d asked wrong too, but, too late.

“I saw the blue Jeep. I watched where it went.—There’s only one blue Jeep in this town.”

“It was my mom’s,” Stiles volunteered, unexpectedly.

Everyone had known Claudia Stilinski. She’d been that type, lively, social, charming, slightly oddball. Then she was gone, and everyone noticed the absence. Even their children knew Stiles’s mom had died.

Now Stiles frowned. He didn’t want that gravity right now. And it was his own doing.

“Your turn,” he prodded.

Derek paused again, looking directly at Stiles till his look turned to challenge, with a smirk. Stiles knew what was coming.

“What’s your real name?”

Stiles closed his eyes, tilted his head back, sighed ferociously. “I’m named after my grandfather on my mom’s side, pure Polish. My real name has more consonants than the alphabet. Even my dad can’t pronounce it and only about three people on the entire planet know it. Not even Scott knows it and we’ve been friends since we were kids.” He turned to Derek for understanding, saying nothing more.

Derek just looked at him, devilishly—which made him look so handsome Stiles gulped.

“ _Cheater_ ,” Derek whispered, drawing it out, a hushed accusation.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed, hopping up in his seat, coming down closer to Derek. He held up a hand, fisted so as not to lay it on Derek without permission. “It’s like my deepest, darkest secret! Only my lawyer—or my lover—will ever know it!”

“You have a lawyer?” Derek asked.

“No!—And that’s another question!”

“Pfft! Then I’ve asked three questions and still don’t know anything about you except what everyone calls you is a nickname—and that you cheat.” Derek’s mouth snapped closed.

Stiles groaned. “Ask better questions!”

“You mean uninteresting ones.”

“I mean—just ask something else—go ‘head—I generously forfeit my turn.”

“’Generously,’” Derek huffed. He sat back thoughtfully, eyeing Stiles, who soon was sure Derek was delaying just to make him squirm. He seemed to have figured out this much already: Patience was not one of Stiles’s attributes.

“Hmmm,” Derek hummed.

Stiles glared.

Derek took a drink of water, sat back again thoughtfully.

“Did I say there was a time limit to ask your fucking question?”

“No,” Derek answered calmly, “you did not.—Does that count as one of your questions?”

“Der-rek,” Stiles enunciated both syllables pointedly, striving to sound threatening.

“OK.—If you could travel to somewhere far away to learn the meaning of life but never be able to return to your home, family and friends again, would you go?”

“Probably not,” Stiles said, pretty much immediately. “You?”

“I’d be tempted, but—no. Not now.”

“You think that’s because there’s enough mystery for us right here?”

Derek’s eyebrows went up, and he shrugged but in a way that suggested that was a good possible reason.

“See? Now we both know something meaningful about each other.—So…” A big grin broke out on Stiles’s face. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” Derek replied, “like this one,” pulling at his shirt. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Red.—What subjects interest you most?”

“I like history a lot, but really ancient history most. I’d like to know how civilization got started.”

“Like archeology?”

“Maybe, if I were digging up ancient cities.—What about you.”

“I’m interested in so many things. I’m not kidding.”

“Name one.”

“Uhhhhh, mythology. Folklore. Don’t get much of that in class so I do a lot of my own searching on the web, read a lot of weird old fairy tales and stuff no one’s heard of—or likes.”

“Did you read _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_? That’s old and weird. We just read it in lit.—I like poetry,” Derek said, casually.

Something in Stiles wanted to burble up and burst out of him. No one he knew liked poetry—or at least admitted to liking it. “Dude! No one likes poetry! Lydia Martin doesn’t even like poetry. She can ace any test about it—but she doesn’t _like_ it!”

Derek frowned again. Hyuck, hyuck, the jock likes poetry—snort, snort.

But Stiles caught it instantly. “No no _no_ , Derek. _No!_ I _love_ poetry. You’re the first person I’ve ever known at school to say he likes poetry.—I could _kiss_ you!” Stiles burbled at last, the joy bursting free.

And silence fell immediately, like a heavy, smelly blanket.

“Uhhhmmm.” Could Stiles tweak _that_ exclamation? “I meant…”

Derek’s frown was gone but a sober look replaced it, slowly softening. His eyes, which of course Stiles hadn’t stopped noticing, with their hazel and sky blue, leaf green and golden speckles—Derek’s magical eyes took on a gleam as he responded, quietly, “You could kiss me.”

It was more than a statement of possibility. It was an invitation.

Stiles had wondered, ever since watching a documentary about sky-diving, what it would feel like to leap from a plane, into the air, earth far, far below—what kind of impulse did a skydiver feel the instant before that leap. _Yeah, here I go!_ Stiles leaned in, announced as quietly as Derek had spoken, “OK,” his mouth, hopefully ginger ale scented, level with Derek’s and so close to it. “This is my first,” he informed. Derek managed to insert, “Mine too,” his mouth moving against Stiles’s before both pressed together, Stiles’s lips upon Derek’s.

They kissed. It was simply mouths together, lips against lips, and lasted maybe three seconds. They parted, but not very far.

“Nice,” Stiles said.

“Yeah,” Derek agreed.

They kissed again. This time Stiles’s hands went to Derek’s shoulders, got leverage. Derek’s hands found Stiles’s waist. Stiles tipped his head, applied more pressure, felt the moister inner parts of his lips meet the same places on Derek.

They parted again but moved close. Stiles saw Derek’s eyes darting, looking all over Stiles’s face. He dove into another kiss, his arms moving more around Derek, though not, far as he could tell (or care) into any elegant embrace. But he could feel, under the t-shirt, Derek’s body, his muscles, quick with nerves, beneath that skin he knew was so smooth. Derek was holding onto him more too. Their mouths were now meshing together, their tongue tips even touching, darting back. Stiles could hear their breaths sawing through their nostrils. He moved his mouth from Derek’s mouth and started laying kisses around it. Derek was trying to do the same to him.

Seated kissing's awkward, unless one person’s in the other’s lap—something like that. Stopping kissing's—not what Stiles wanted.

But _breath_ , Stiles needed air. Still facing Derek he leaned against the back of the couch. Derek did the same. They recovered, breathing as if they’d been exercising, looking at each other. Stiles’s hand was holding onto Derek’s he realized, somewhere near Derek’s leg. Derek’s hold tightened.

“Stiles,” he started, “we don’t have to—you know—do—what I asked—“

“What!” Stiles blurted—quietly blurted. “Wait, listen—“

With the prospect of sex, or at least further experience of getting more physical with Derek, being withdrawn, it became all Stiles wanted.

 _Derek Hale is shy._ Stiles’s hand came up, touched Derek’s face, his cheek. Stiles Stilinski was actually caressing Derek Hale’s face.

“You don’t want to make out more?” Stiles asked, for the first time actually achieving, approximating at least, that elusive puppy dog appeal.

“Yeah,” Derek answered and Stiles could swear he heard the _of course_ implied.

“Good.—Thank god,” Stiles cried, through a smile. “Do you want to—go upstairs?”

“Your room’s upstairs?” Derek asked, and god how Stiles wanted to be a wise ass, say something like _No, my secret laboratory is, nyah–ah-ah._

Instead all he said was, “Yeah.”

For whatever good sense had kicked in and kept him quiet, Stiles would be grateful, later, maybe even years later if this was going to be the night his virginity ended and he could look back on it, in his old age, fondly.

“Take your water,” Stiles suggested as he grabbed his soda and launched from the couch, up the stairs, Derek following.


	4. Chapter Four

Heat rises. His room, not stifling, was definitely at a higher temp than downstairs. Stiles switched on the fan in the corner, to its highest setting. It wafted to and fro. He flicked on the lamp by his bed; a soft glow to see by would be enough.

There stood Derek Hale in his bedroom, but this really wasn’t the moment to bask in far-fetched fantasies come true.

“Too hot in here?” Stiles asked.

“It’s warm,” Derek confirmed.

“Well—“

Now Stiles knew he was not a physical specimen to incite envy, admiration and possibly not even desire, but he was lean, and he had muscles in there somewhere. Reservations in that regard weren’t serving him now though. He whipped off his shirt and flung it aside.

“Good thing there’s a topless-only rule in effect up here,” he said and walked close to Derek, reaching for the hem of his shirt and holding on.

“Is there now,” Derek said, with a tone that would have made Stiles shiver if he had time to fritter away relishing lush, seductive tones of voice.

Derek was already lifting his arms.

Stiles replied with a curt, “Yup,” and pulled off Derek’s t-shirt, with less than cinematic suavity, no doubt, but Derek was bare-chested now and that’s what mattered.

Derek looked at Stiles, with a mighty smirk and a decidedly impish glitter in his eyes.

“My philosophy is—” Stiles began but Derek interrupted.

“Your philosophy is— _what happens if I light this match in this room full of gas fumes._ ” It was yet another tone of voice Stiles had never heard, or even imagined, coming out of Derek Hale.

Stiles glared with mock indignation. “That is _not_ a philosophy. That’s a _modus operandi._ —And how do you know that anyway?”

“Are we still playing the questions game?”

“Dude, we’re _always_ gonna be playing the questions game!”

Stiles aligned himself so that a slight shove would do the trick. Derek’s marvelous chest, his firm pectorals with the streak of hair between and, now that he was close enough to see, a few stray strands sprouting round his nips, was before Stiles’s eyes, near enough to lick if he tried. But that was for later, if the cosmos wasn’t just completely fucking with him now.

Stiles placed one hand over each pectoral and shoved, lightly. Derek—voluntarily obviously—sat down on the bed’s edge. Stiles sidled closer, till his legs straddled Derek’s knees. Derek leaned back, supported on his elbows. Stiles waved his fingers, indicating, _lay back,_ and Derek did, scooting further onto the bed in the process. Stiles climbed aboard Derek, on his hands and knees, his face hovering above Derek’s.

The last thing Stiles expected was what Derek did next, lifting a hand and tracing, ever so gently, the shape of Stiles’s mouth.

Stiles reciprocated by brushing a finger over Derek’s eyebrows, one after the other. They were as outstanding a facial feature of his as his stunning eyes. Stiles raked a fingertip through them. Derek winced a little.

“You like my _eyebrows?_ ” he asked.

“They’re—“ Stiles chose to substitute his initial word choice with “remarkable.”

Derek smiled, shyly.

“I like this too,” Stiles said, dropping in to kiss Derek’s mouth. And they kissed, their position now making it so much more— _more_. With his hands either side of Derek’s face Stiles felt no encumbrance or restriction; all of Derek’s face was his field to kiss. Even gravity was assisting him. His body had settled on Derek’s, the blast of the fan’s mechanical breeze fortunately sweeping over them every few seconds so the heat build-up was bearable. But their groin to groin contact was causing another effect, more noticeable than increasing body heat.

Stiles was well aware how Derek was hung, and, sure, through layers of jeans and underwear there was bound to be some distortion but what Stiles felt bulging against his own bulge felt— _enormous_.

It distracted him right out of his delight in kissing Derek’s delicious lips.

“Derek,” Stiles sobbed, with a plaintiveness exceedingly rare in the Stilinski kid, “I have a—“ He halted.

“What?” Derek asked, moved to genuine concern.

“I don’t know how to suck dick,” Stiles flat out admitted.

“I know that. I said you don’t—“

“I want to. I _want_ to.” Stiles _wanted_. “But your dick feels like—it’s gi _gan_ tic.”

Derek actually scoffed. He _scoffed_. “It’s not gi _gan_ tic.”

Once again, to what would have been the absolute, utter amazement of anyone who knew Stiles who might be witnessing this scene, he did not make some snarky comment about a certain someone’s _smugness_.

He merely asked, “Can I see it?”

Derek’s gaze indicated serious internal debate.

“We’ll be cooler without our clothes.”—Never let it be said Stiles Stilinski couldn’t be reasonable when the situation called for it.

He wasn’t waiting. He got off Derek, sat on the bedside and started taking off his sneakers. Derek slid till he could sit too then huffed, startled, when Stiles slipped to the floor to bare Derek’s feet.

Standing, Stiles unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and shed them, tossing them to a corner usually piled with cast off clothing, but currently clear.

Derek slowly stood. “You’re not going to measure it, are you?” he asked.

“But I’ve got my calipers right over— _no_ , I’m not going to measure it—not by instrumentation at least.” He smirked. “Not tonight anyway.”

Derek moved with deliberate slowness, unsnapping, unzipping, his eyes on Stiles, whose eyes were focused conspicuously below Derek’s waist.

“You’re leering,” Derek accused.

“ _This_ is leering.” Stiles leered, eyes wide, expression hungry, tongue lolling. Then he snickered. “Would you like music?”

“Music?” Derek _still_ had his pants up, though opened, gaping wide at the zipper.

“To strip to.”

Derek snorted. Stiles stepped close to him, eyes on his. He spoke soothingly. "Derek, look how far we’ve come in, what, six hours, eight at the most?—Derek…” Stiles made his boldest move of the day: he put his arms around Derek and hugged him, just held on, resting his head against Derek’s, saying nothing because words are slippery blunt things that can’t express certain feelings like the one Stiles was feeling, which was so new to him he had no idea what it was.

He stepped back. Derek let his pants drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Then, being the good boy he’d been raised to be he picked them up and laid them neatly on Stiles’s bed.

“I’m not even hard anymore,” he informed.

Stiles reached over, smiling coquettishly—Stiles-style. He ran a finger along the waistband of Derek’s boxer briefs, let it slip a little inside. He tugged down.

“You leave that to me.”

In one swift and certain move Derek stripped off his underwear, as deftly as he’d gotten out of his jockstrap that afternoon. He gestured at Stiles’s boxers. Stiles shed them at once.

There they stood, in just their socks.

The immediately visible differences between their dicks was Derek’s foreskin and Stiles’s lack of same, and Derek’s dick appeared darker colored; he’d not deflated entirely from his earlier hardness and he looked more girthsome than Stiles, that was for sure. Stiles had a long dick, he had long fingers and had had “man hands” since he was a young teen. The finger/dick correlation was evidently true with Stiles.

This was getting Stiles nowhere though. He dropped in front of Derek, who stifled a gasp Stiles heard nonetheless. He carefully hefted Derek’s cock in his right hand, looked up into Derek’s face and waggled his eyebrows like a fool. He leaned forward, formed an exaggerated pucker and kissed Derek’s dick head. He kissed it again and again then let the very tip slip just inside the kiss-pucker.

Countdown resumed.

Stiles stood up but not before noting how Derek’s inhales and exhales undulated through his entire torso, reaching his lower abdomen. He lined up their now stiff dicks, side by side. Derek’s exceeded his in length not just girth. Stiles could wrap his long fingers around it, his middle finger and thumb could close around it. But Stiles had _long_ fingers. He estimated it was maybe an eight inch dick, circumference as yet unknown but by _pi_ times diameter probably at six inches, give or take some fractions.

Stiles ran fingers against Derek’s cheek. “My interest in dimensions,” he began, hoping he didn’t sound too weird, too nerdish or too dickish, “is due to, someday, depending on what happens after tonight, my hoping you fuck me. I have to really, I dunno, train—like an Olympic athlete—for that to happen. Even to be able to suck it.”

He’d kept a hold on the organ in question, stroking it, fascinated at how the foreskin slipped back and forth.

“OK?”

Derek, eyes lowered, just echoed, “OK.”

“I needed to know what I’m working with here.—Do you think I’m weird?”

Derek smiled. “Yes.”

Stiles pouted. “Do you trust me?”

Derek’s smile broadened. He actually laughed as he answered, “No.”

Stiles was _crushed_ , for real. Derek _meant_ that!

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you or try to embarrass you? Or do anything like that to you?—Really?”

Derek relented. “No.”

“Thank you.—I’m weird. I’m a pervert. I’m a trespasser—“

“ _Stop_ it.”

“But I’m not. Mean.”

Hell of a conversation to have naked, Stiles thought. Or, maybe, the perfect conversation.

“Let’s take a shower,” Stiles tossed out there.

“What?”

“Let’s take a shower.”

“Do I—smell—down there?”

“No.”

Derek was giving Stiles a look already quite familiar.

“You’re not trusting me,” Stiles proposed.

“You keep—surprising me,” Derek countered.

“That’s good though, isn’t it? Keeps life interesting!”

May Zing’s Food had a few shelves with certified organic and green products, for household use and personal care. With foresight that impressed even Stiles himself that very afternoon he’d selected a bar of soap, unscented, baking soda and aloe vera its primary ingredients, nothing harsh or artificial. He retrieved the bar from his dresser drawer and Derek plucked it from his hand.

“We use stuff like this at home,” Derek said, approvingly.

Stiles wondered, optimistically, how long before he got to meet Derek’s family.

“Great,” Stiles cheered. ”So now you should start trusting me.”

“We’ll see.” Derek gave a fake glare.

Stiles peeled off his socks and Derek did the same. At last they were totally naked. Down the hallway to the bathroom they padded, dicks bobbing.


End file.
